Damned Good Show (6 page)

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

She poured coffee. “Drink. This stuff is black magic.”

The suit was a reasonably good fit. He dressed and went out and bought a pair of brown brogues and a tweed hat to go with the suit, and retrieved the Bentley from the Ritz. The doorman got two pounds, and Langham got a salute worthy of a Wingco. It seemed appropriate. He felt meritorious.

They drove to Oxford. He parked in the High.

“I want to see all these lovely colleges before Hitler bombs them to bits,” she said. Langham asked why he would do that. “Look what he's done to Warsaw,” she said. “And the
Daily Telegraph
reckons that if his bombers come here they'll kill six hundred thousand people in two months.”

“Let 'em try. We'll make mincemeat of them.” But he remembered the RAF's annual exercises, only that summer, when 409's Hampdens had played the part of an enemy force arriving from the North Sea. They had flown deep into England, cruised around for hours, never seen a fighter. On the other hand they never found their target, a factory near Reading. Never found Reading, come to that. Too much low cloud.

“I have a friend in the Home Office,” she said. “Toby Stone-Pelham. He said mass graves have been dug in the suburbs. All his family are the most tremendous liars. Perhaps we should go and look,
except I'm not exactly sure where the suburbs are.”

“And you don't seem hugely upset about it.”

“No, I'm not. Are you? Yesterday morning I might have cared if six hundred thousand Londoners got killed, but since I met you nothing else matters.” She was calm and content. They were walking arm-inarm. He really didn't want to talk about bomb damage; he'd driven all the way from Kindrick to escape the war. “You'll feel better after lunch,” he said, and wasn't sure what he meant.

“I don't want to feel better. Were you listening to me?”

Langham had a chilled and fluttering sensation in his stomach, a feeling he sometimes got at takeoff, when he was convinced that both engines were going to fail just as the Hampden got airborne. “Yes, I was listening,” he said. “It seems that we're in love with each other. Rather an amazing coincidence.”

“Quite stunning. You look slightly stunned.”

“That's hunger.”

They lunched at the Randolph. Watercress soup, braised pheasant and bottled Guinness, lemon syllabub.

“Now that we know each other rather better,” he said, “and since this suit obviously wasn't made for you …”

“It's my brother's. Spencer Herrick Herrick. At Eton they called him Herrick Squared, very suitable, he's got a brain like a brick. He's in Rhodesia now, thank God. When father died—”

“Slow down. Who was father?”

“Who cares? He's dead. He despised me, and I detested him.” She ate the last of the lemon syllabub, and licked the spoon. “Should I have another? Probably not.”

“For a piece of thistledown, you're a hearty eater.”

“I do my best. Father did his worst, smoked in bed, the whole manor house went up, nothing left to bury, not even bones. I got an obscene amount of money. Spencer got the title and fifty thousand acres of beef ranch in Africa and the apartment in Albany, rather a long way from Africa so he lets me use it, and unless you know some reason why not, such as bigamy or insanity or—God forbid—impotence, I suggest we marry. Fast.”

He took a deep breath, held it while he counted to five, let it go. “This time yesterday we hadn't met. How can we be sure that…”

“Oh, tosh. We knew after ten seconds. Ten weeks' thinking about it won't change anything, will it?”

“No.”

“Good, that's settled. I can call you darling now. I've been itching to do it all morning. Get the bill, darling. We must order you some more suits, darling. You look ravishing in tweed, darling.”

“Well, ravishing is what I do best.”
Oops
, he thought.
Bit premature, that.
“Or so my horoscope says.”

“I expect we could get a room here,” she said, “if your lust is overflowing.”

“No, no. Not necessary.” As he paid the bill he wondered why he had said that. Why be so coy? So cautious? Of course his bloody lust was bloody overflowing. She looked like a nymph and dressed like a dream and called him darling. How was he supposed to feel? He over-tipped hugely, and felt slightly better.

They strolled through a few colleges. She said enough to prevent awkward silences and no more. Her mind was busy making and unmaking thoughts which she was afraid to put into words in case they spoiled the happiness of the moment. She was twenty-six, utterly determined never to marry a man who was merely suitable. London was littered with suitable men. She had told so many of them they were wasting their time, that her friends had decided her standards were impossibly high. But all she wanted was someone to give her what she didn't know she wanted until she got it.

Not just sex. Sex might be essential but it wasn't crucial. Or perhaps the other way around, she didn't care, sex happened, it was glorious but it was predictable. Life wasn't all sex. She wanted to be surprised from time to time. Maybe shocked, even frightened. That's what made Langham a perfect match for her. She was looking for trouble and he was a trouble-maker. He thought he could hide it. She knew better.

On the way back to London she saw a lone Spitfire doing aerobatics. Langham stopped the car and they watched it. Wing-over, plunge, soar, loop, roll, level out, steep bank, circle. “Probably doing an air-test,” he said. “Making sure none of the screws are loose.”

“Thrilling. Doesn't it thrill you?”

“It interests me.
You
thrill me.”

She was silent, which made him look. Blood had rushed to her cheeks. He was impressed by his own powers.

That night he did not sleep on the couch. Again, he was impressed by his own powers until she said: “There's no hurry. We've got hours and hours.”

He felt the light sweat drying on his body, and listened to his heartbeat dropping to normal. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

“We'll call that an air-test.”

“Agreed.”

“Now we know that none of the screws are loose.”

“Exactly. We can explore the wide blue yonder.”

“Infinity for eternity,” she said. “Yummy.”

Langham had never known a popsy who talked like that.

Next morning they walked to Savile Row and ordered some suits from Latham & Nunnerley. Zoë charged them to her brother's account. Then they drove to Richmond and lunched at a riverside hotel. The air was easy, and there was just enough haze in the sky to soften the heat of the sun. An anti-aircraft gun had been set up on the other side of the Thames. The soldiers were playing cricket with a tennis ball. “This war is a swiz,” Langham said. “I want my money back.” It had been a busy night and now he felt very idle.

“Where do you want to get married?” He had no quick answer, so she said: “Not in a church. Ever since the Hitler-Stalin Pact I've gone off God. I don't think God's playing the game, do you?”

“Probably not.” He didn't care, one way or the other. “I rather think I've got to get permission from my CO.”

“Oh. Shall I come with you?”

“Good heavens, no.” He had an image of her surrounded by hungry Hampden pilots while she searched for Spitfires.

“I don't see how he can approve unless he meets the bride-to-be.” But food arrived, and she forgot the CO. She skipped from subject to subject; nothing obsessed her. He liked that. Flying was his life, and people who interfered with flying annoyed him. She made him proud to be a pilot, maybe not a Spitfire pilot and something would have to be done about that, but still there was plenty of time …

They drove back to Albany and suddenly she was almost in tears. “Go now,” she said. “Don't wait. It's too painful. Go, go.” He packed his bag and kissed her. For a second she responded, but then she could barely stand to look at him. He thought he knew her. Obviously he didn't. He felt as if he had been poked in the stomach with a walking-stick. He left as silently as a burglar.

The Bentley coasted onto the forecourt of a petrol station near Stevenage. A long way from Lincolnshire.

“I was in the last lot,” the owner said. He was middle-aged, gaunt and gloomy. “Durham Light Infantry.
Very
light, by the time the Armistice came.” He raised his left arm; the sleeve was pinned up at the elbow. “So don't think I'm not patriotic.” He looked enviously at the wings on their tunics. “Can't you get filled up at an aerodrome?”

“Never make it. We're running on fumes,” Silk said.

“We got recalled from leave,” Langham said. “Urgent telegram, top priority. The whole squadron's on operations.”

“Dawn patrol,” Silk said.

“Everything's coupons, coupons,” the owner said. “Bleeding inspectors …”

“Rules are made to be broken,” Silk said. “We thought you might have a few pre-war gallons still in the pumps. At the going price, of course.”

“You'll get me shot, you will.” He sold them two gallons of petrol for three pounds. “Nice motor,” he said. “Lucky sods. We marched every bloody where, we did.”

They drove north, in the gathering dusk. “Look,” Silk said, and tapped the petrol gauge. “You can actually see the needle going down. She's drinking like a fish.”

“I'll drive fast,” Langham said. “That way, we'll get there before we run out.”

Near Peterborough it was obvious that the plan wasn't working. They stopped at a coaching inn and had dinner. “You look terrible,” Langham said. “Eyes like poached eggs. What happened to you?”

“Two redheads,” Silk explained. “It's one too many for a mere boy like me. I was keeping the second-best for you, but you disappeared.”

“I was otherwise engaged. In fact, I don't know how, but I actually
got
engaged. You know: to be married.”

“Ah.” Silk frowned, and nodded. “Well, now.”

“She thinks I'm a Spitfire pilot.”

“Explains a lot. Bloody glory boys, they are.” Silk drank beer and watched Langham over the rim of the glass. “I hear no cheers.”

“She's a wonderful, beautiful girl. I'm very lucky.” He made it
sound like a death in the family. Silk changed the subject.

Somewhere near the edge of Lincolnshire, with the fuel gauge nudging zero, Langham switched off the engine and let the Bentley coast down a long and gentle slope. He saw a small farmhouse, all dark except for a slight gleam of moonlight on its windows. Parked on the grass verge was a Ford shooting brake. He stopped alongside it. “What's up?” Silk asked.

“Not a word,” Langham whispered. “Take the wheel. Be ready to depart with all speed.” He held up a coil of rubber tube. “I pinched it from that garage.”

One end went into the Ford's petrol tank. Langham sucked on the other end; pinched it shut and breathed hard; sucked again; repeated the routine; finally tasted petrol. One last suck and he had a mouthful; stuffed the splashing tube into the Bentley's tank and spat vigorously, again and again.

“Dog,” Silk said quietly.

It was on a chain, in front of the farmhouse. When it howled, the sound was so raw that Langham almost dropped the tube. “Nice doggie,” he muttered. “Back to sleep.” It kept howling, and the chain rattled as it lunged. A bedroom window was flung open, an angry threat was shouted. Still the dog howled. “How much longer?” Silk asked. “Nearly there,” Langham said. Now the angry man saw them, and cursed, and vanished. “I bet he's got a gun,” Silk said. “Farmers always have guns.” The dog was becoming hysterical. “Another twenty seconds,” Langham said. “I'm not doing this twice.” Silk turned the key in the ignition: no success. “Please, please,” he said. “Please with pink icing on.” A door slammed. He tried again: nothing. “Could that stuff be diesel?” he asked. More windows, lights, voices. “Eighteen, nineteen, twenty,” Langham said. “Now go!” He vaulted into the back seat. The engine fired and the Bentley accelerated in a spray of gravel and black exhaust just as the farmer skidded out of his gateway and tripped on his nightshirt. The shotgun blew a hole in a hedge. By the time he got up, the Bentley was fifty yards away and backfiring like a cowboy movie. “I don't think she likes your petrol,” Silk said.

When they put the car back in Flight Lieutenant McHarg's lock-up, they noticed the dirt on the wings and the windscreen and the petrol splashes around the filler cap. “We'll worry about that tomorrow,” Langham said.

“B” Flight went off to enjoy its three-day leave.

The threat of German measles faded. Many groundcrew recovered, enough to ensure that at least half of 409's Hampdens were available for action. Three of these bombers and their crews were kept on stand-by. It was a tedious duty: Command could find no German naval targets for them to bomb. The stand-by crews argued about this. According to the newspapers, the Luftwaffe had not bombed anything in the West, so maybe some neutral statesman was brokering a settlement. Mussolini was the popular choice. But when Hitler made a speech and told Britain and France that the war could stop at once, they turned him down flat. Any ceasefire would condemn the world to slavery, they said. So the war wasn't off. But it wasn't altogether on, either. Except in Poland.

Germany had agreed to the Roosevelt Rules against bombing targets where civilians might be hit. By then the Luftwaffe had energetically bombed any number of Polish towns and villages. Civilian targets could (and would) be bombed, so the German High Command announced, because Polish civilians were involving themselves in the fighting. A week later, Germany declared that all organized fighting in Poland had ended. Warsaw was now defenseless. The Luftwaffe sent an armada of Heinkels and Dorniers to bomb the city. Ten thousand civilians died. Hitler made another speech, saying he was willing to make peace. Nobody believed him except the German people, and they had no choice in the matter.